


Shirt

by Splinter



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Biting, Cuddling & Snuggling, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Morning After, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Post-Movie(s), Sharing Clothes, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-22
Updated: 2017-01-30
Packaged: 2018-09-19 05:18:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9420317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Splinter/pseuds/Splinter
Summary: The possessive part of Max’s brain, the bit of him that gets growly over his jacket or his car, might have been bothered by someone else wearing his clothes. It isn’t. It’s purring at the sight of her.Fill for thesmutty_arts art prompt challenge, inspired byyoukaiyume'sgorgeous NSFW art.





	1. Chapter 1

The sleeping shirt tears when Furiosa pulls it over her head. It’s an old t-shirt, the cotton fabric worn past soft and into ragged. She’s kept it as long as possible – it’s snuggly, drapes easily on her body – but its time has definitely come. She huffs, annoyed. Then she looks round at Max.

He’s half-way through taking off his own day clothes, about to put his shirt away. She grins when she catches his eye, and lifts the shirt right out of his hand. In a moment, she’s pulled it on, pushing the long left sleeve up above her elbow, looking back as if daring him to do something about it.

The possessive part of Max’s brain, the bit of him that gets growly over his jacket or his car, might have been bothered by someone else wearing his clothes. It isn’t. It’s purring at the sight of her.

She looks adorable. She’s taller than he is, but even so, his shirt is big on her, the neckline sliding open over her strong shoulders. It hangs loose over her body, just to the top of her bare thighs. A memory surfaces, of Jessie in one of his work shirts. In the old world, as he remembers it, shared clothing could be a sign, a visible acknowledgement of intimacy. 

Furiosa has given him so much trust and closeness, but they’re both shy about naming it, about making it visible. They don’t tend to touch in public, don’t call each other nicknames or use endearments. Seeing her in his clothes, relaxed and teasing, is pushing buttons he hadn’t realised he still has. There’s something territorial about it that he doesn’t want to admit to, adding a guilty spice to the way it makes his cock stir and his breath come faster. He blinks, sits down to unfasten his brace.

“Toast says the baths should reopen tomorrow,” Furiosa says. The Citadel has a few cherished plunge pools, but one room has recently been closed for repairs to the plumbing. It’s an extraordinary feeling, immersing yourself in water, though it can take Max a while to get used to being so unguarded in public. “You want to go?” He hums, uncertain. “Be less smelly,” she teases. He looks up.

“Said, mm. The woman wearing my shirt,” he points out. She’s standing there half naked, all green eyes and long legs, wrapped up in his clothes.

“I like your smell.” Her voice roughens as she says it.

Max gets up, one foot bare and the other sock half off, and pulls her to him, clumsy with want. His shirt wasn’t really dirty, even by Citadel standards, but he can smell his own scent on her, and that of her own warm body. She slides her nub around his waist, pressing closer, then tilts his head up to start kissing him. When he strokes her side, rucking the shirt up, he can feel cloth and her soft skin under his hand.

They stumble into bed, Furiosa half-turning to pull him after her. They end up on their sides, Max behind her, cock hard inside his leathers. He shuffles closer, reaching for her, his lips on her shoulder and his hands pushing the shirt out of the way. He wraps one arm around her ribs, his other hand stroking down over her belly, reaching between her legs. He groans when she wriggles back against him.

“You’re so wet.” His fingers are already curling.

He loves fingering her like this, holding her and working at her, and usually he loves taking his time over it. Tonight, he just wants to feel her. A shiver goes through her when he circles his fingers on her clit, getting the pressure just right. There’s a deep, greedy satisfaction to knowing that he knows her, knows what she enjoys, how her body responds. He kisses her neck again, feels her arch back against him.

He holds her tighter and keeps stroking. He knows he’s speeding up, hungry for every twitch and sigh. He loves the way she lets him do this, the way she gives herself over to him. When she comes, it’s as if he can touch her strength and her vulnerability. He holds her tighter.

She lies panting for a moment. He kisses her shoulders, feels her ribs rise and fall under his arm. Then she starts to grind her hips against him, reaching back to tug at his belt. 

Their hands tangle, her flesh hand and his wet fingers, getting his leathers down to his knees before they’re both too impatient to wait any longer. She’s rubbing herself on him, her bum round and firm against his thighs, against his cock.

He grips her hip, holding her steady so he can line up and slide in. She’s still shivery from orgasm, wet and tight around him. She leans into it, clenching hard when he’s all the way in. They stay like that for a moment, gasping.

When he starts to move, it’s with a small, rocking thrust; he wants to be deep inside her, barely wants to pull out. She turns her head enough to kiss him, her hand in his hair. 

At first, he’s trying to keep it slow, to stretch it out. He can’t hold back that long, his patience going as he smells her skin and feels her cunt muscles squeezing at him. He works his arm back around her, pulling her closer as he fucks into her with short, deep thrusts. She moans when he gets his other hand back between her legs. 

She slides her hand over his side, reaching under his arm to grasp his buttock, her fingers digging in hard as she clenches again. He comes hard, losing himself inside her, eyes tight shut and his mouth open on her shoulder.

Furiosa is leaning against him, warm in his arms. He’s hazy from his orgasm, but he doesn’t want to stop, doesn’t want to pull away from her. He nudges his leg forwards, under hers, so she’s almost cradled between his thighs. They both moan at a last jerk of his cock.

He strokes up from her ribs, nudging her shirt up to find her breast, cupping it and teasing at her nipple. When she sighs, he kisses down her neck. 

His right hand is still resting between her legs. He nudges his fingers down to her cunt, to where she’s stretched around him, rubbing gently at wet muscle. The sound she makes is entrancing, something between a whimper and a giggle. His cock is starting to soften but he’s still balls deep inside her, their bodies tangled together. He starts to stroke up and down, idle and soft, from her cunt to her clit. She’s so twitchy already, her nipple hard under his other hand, everything amplified by the way they’re wrapped around each other. She gasps at the scrape of his teeth on her neck.

“Do that again.” He can feel her cunt pulse around him, her hand reaching back to his bum. He lets his teeth scrape again, nothing that will leave a mark. “Harder,” she says, moaning when he sucks a kiss onto the curve of her shoulder. Her knee lifts, her thighs pressing tighter around his hand. She’s starting to shiver and squirm, as if it’s too much, but she’s still hanging onto him, still leaning into it. He strokes and presses, sucks and bites, feeling her shudder around him, under his hands and his mouth.

She’s noisy when she comes, moaning high and loud. When she finishes, she flops, suddenly heavy and relaxed. He lets his softened cock slide out of her, starts to stroke down her thighs and up over her belly, petting at her pubic hair. She’s damp with sweat and slick. His hands move over hard muscle, scars and soft, tender skin, chasing and soothing her shivers.

After a moment, she turns over in his arms, flushed and sweaty and smiling. He can see pink marks on her shoulder, left by his mouth. He wonders if they’ll have faded by tomorrow, admits to himself that he hopes they won’t. He assumes the whole Citadel knows they’re fucking, and if anything, he’s more private about it than she is – but he likes the thought of those rosy marks on her skin, even though they’ll probably be covered up by her clothes. 

Furiosa kisses him, wet and messy, biting at his lips. Max holds her tighter, one hand fisting in the fabric of her shirt. It’s ridden up so high that they’re pressed skin to skin, her chest and belly bare against his. She nudges him.

“Careful. S’my favourite shirt.” Then she snuggles closer, ducking her head to suck and nip at the pulse in his throat.


	2. Chapter 2

Furiosa wakes slowly, so soft and warm that she feels as if she’s floating. Her body is at ease with itself, sleek and satisfied. She feels well fucked and well rested, still glowy with it. She lies still for a moment, eyes closed against the morning light. When she opens them, she finds Max propped on one elbow, watching her.

“Good morning.” He sounds as lazy and sated as she feels. He’s smiling. 

Furiosa stretches, arms above her head, feeling a pleasant ache as she arches her back. There’s a tenderness on her neck and shoulder, not sore exactly, but sensitive. She remembers his mouth on her, last night, and rolls towards him.

He leans in to kiss her, soft and wet. His arm goes around her, hand caressing her through the fabric of her shirt, his shirt. She’d been teasing him, when she put it on. She hadn’t expected it to affect her so much, the feel and scent of his clothes, even before his eyes had gone dark as he looked at her. His hand is big and warm on her side, running over the lines and angles of her torso. He pushes the shirt up to reach her bare skin. 

She wriggles a bit closer, fitting herself comfortably against him. The way he’s stroking her doesn’t have the hunger of last night. It’s touch as an end itself, an unhurried pleasure in warmth and contact. He’s naked, the way she’d pulled him into bed. She nudges her leg between his, to tangle closer. His hand slows as they snuggle together, both dozing again.

Her own snore wakes them both, making Max laugh. She sighs, and sits up, knowing she has work to do this morning. He sits up too, still sleepy, his hair wild. She can’t resist petting it, patting down the curl at the back, combing her fingers through the rest. She can see a darker mark under his jaw, a bruise forming. It’s over the pulse point, where he’s always responsive. She’d sucked harder than she’d realised.

Max puts his hand out to touch her neck. She’ll have bruises there, too – but she knew that before he touched her, knew just what he was reaching for. She’d wanted his mouth last night, even liked the idea of a mark, of carrying him on her skin a little longer. He leans in now to kiss her neck, half-apologetic. Only half. He’s still smiling, a little smug.

His bites are right next to the scars of her brand. She had never imagined that she could allow anyone to leave another mark on her, let alone that she might like it. When he kisses her again, she presses closer.

She doesn’t know how to make sense of this, how to explain the sweetness of the ache on her neck. It’s strange, that it should be easier to go out with the mark of his mouth on her than it is to hold his hand as they walk through the garage. Not that she’s done either, yet.

After a moment, she pulls away. She takes the shirt off, throws it back to him. Max puts a hand out to catch it, but stays sprawled in bed, watching her as washes and dresses. She sits on the edge of the bed to do up her boots, prodding him to make room. He sighs dramatically, then sits up and shuffles over, not exactly moving away. He nuzzles at her neck. Most of the marks are covered by her shirt, but there’s one at the edge of the fabric, and a second higher up, on her bare neck. He kisses her there, his lips soft and careful, lingering on her. She leans against him for a moment, before getting up to put her arm on.

Max hauls himself out of bed, starts getting ready for the day. She likes looking at him: the curve of his bum, the line of his shoulders. His cock is soft and rather pretty between his full, muscled thighs. There’s a morning-after ease to him; his body is strong and sure, for all its scars. She recognises her own feeling of wellbeing in the way he moves.

She knows, exactly, the moment when he notices the bruise she’s given him. Max is humming as he washes his face. He must have looked into the sliver of mirror she keeps above the washstand, because the humming stops.

He’s washing his neck, fingers slowing around his pulse point. He has his back to her, but what she can see of his cheek looks flushed. 

Furiosa goes on strapping her bodice into place. She doesn’t want to stare at him, not if he’s already feeling vulnerable, but she can’t help sneaking glances. In silence, he pulls his shirt back on – it must still be warm from her body – and finishes getting dressed. His cheeks are pink, his hair still a mess. She thinks he’s stopped smiling, but that’s not quite true – it comes and goes, just visible in the corners of his mouth.

He looks so absurd, and so beautiful, that for a moment she wants to pull him back into bed, cuddle him close. She could kiss and bite him all over, leave soft little marks on his thighs and sides and throat. She thinks he would like it. She is quite certain that he likes having bitten her.

They finish dressing at the same time. Even with his jacket on, the bruise is clearly visible on his throat. Furiosa goes back to her desk, digs out her black scarf and brings it over, wrapping it around his neck. He’s worn the scarf before. It covers the mark, and it won’t cause comment. 

As she tucks the ends in, Max pulls her closer, kisses her, suddenly heated. Furiosa returns it, can’t help herself. When at last she pulls away, her hand lingers on his neck. 

Later that morning, she looks across the garage to see Max at work. He’s still wearing her scarf, though it’s a warm day. Then she sees how he’s standing, one hand tucked under the fabric, fingers touching his throat. He’s smiling.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm at [lurkinghistoric](http://lurkinghistoric.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr.


End file.
